


The Light That Fills the Emptiness

by rhia474



Series: Herald and Lion [10]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Cullen is awkward, F/M, Family, Romance, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-12
Updated: 2020-06-12
Packaged: 2021-03-04 02:47:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,953
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24686344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rhia474/pseuds/rhia474
Summary: The day after Satinalia, the Inquisitor's family arrives to Skyhold. Cullen Rutherford goes on a run, and remains eloquent as ever when it is about matters of the heart.A more light-hearted interlude before the Big Things hit our heroes again.
Relationships: Cullen Rutherford/Female Trevelyan, Female Inquisitor/Cullen Rutherford, Female Warrior Inquisitor/Cullen Rutherford
Series: Herald and Lion [10]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/240961
Comments: 4
Kudos: 19





	The Light That Fills the Emptiness

**Author's Note:**

> A/N:
> 
> \--So we are back after...what, five years of absence? Yes, yes here we go, because I'm a sucker for punishment and apparently some still read this series and send kudos. Thank you, everyone, seriously. This is for you--with homes of more coming if real life in 2020 allows.
> 
> 1\. Almost all of the DAII fics here portray the Inquisitor’s family in a not too favorable light, some as downright abusive. While that approach certainly has its merits, I decided to go a completely different route when working on Roxanne’s background. How would an Inquisitor develop if she had a strong, supporting family behind her?
> 
> 2\. As usual, in-game conversations have been re-arranged somewhat to fit the story flow better.
> 
> 3\. Quote ‘I saw in a night vision’ is from the responsory Aspiciebam, Antiphonale ad usum ecclesiae Sarum, politissimis imaginibus decoratum, London, 1519, temporale folios 10v-11r—from the Use of Salisbury, a variant of the Roman Rite of liturgy in the Middle Ages for the first Sunday of Advent (more obscure medievalism, yo!)

_I like the way your eyes look into mine  
I like how it feels when you smile  
I like the way you watch me when I walk away  
Say you’ll stay_

_I like to feel your breath on my face  
I like to swim around in your good grace  
I like the way your lips taste  
Say you’ll stay_

_Stay, Two Steps From Hell feat. Merethe Soltvedt_

_And I'm trying to believe  
In things that I don't know  
The turning of the world  
The color of your soul  
That love could kill the pain  
Truth is never vain  
It turns strangers into lovers  
And enemies to brothers  
Just say you understand  
I never had this planned_

_  
Without You Here, Boyce Avenue (original by Goo Goo Dolls)_

Of course, he goes running the morning after Satinalia. _The world doesn’t stop just because you finally kissed the love of your life on the battlements the night previous, after all. You had a lovely night of sleep, much better, in fact, then usual. No lazing about._

If he must be completely honest with himself, though, there’s just a little bit more than the usual examination of himself as he dons the old Templar fatigues. _Is that the beginning of a love handle there_? he wonders, and although he’s well aware that desk duty lately made him miss more weapons practice than ever, he cannot blame _this_ on that alone. It’s not merely that several people around Skyhold took great pains since his ‘illness’ to make sure he gets regular meals, but The War Room meetings are a great opportunity for Cook (he refuses to call her ‘Chef’ with the Orlesian term) to showcase her pastry-making skills. She’s terribly fond of announcing to everyone willing to listen (and most of those who aren’t as well) that she studied in Val Royeaux (‘ _why, just like our beloved Inquisitor’_ ). Maker bless her, those warm butterhorn pastries she makes are way too delicious.

 _Indeed_ , Cullen sighs, pats his stomach before cinching his belt and decides to ask Cook next time to send up carrots for him.

_Or, at least, limit the amount of pastries to two per person._

He’s doing his second round, jogging down the stairs around the rotunda, when he sees a flash of black-and-white from the corner of his eye, and Roxanne is catching up to him in perfect rhythm like she’d always done this before.

 _Or like she knew exactly when I was passing by here. Was she…watching from Solas’ scaffolding through the window?_ The thought sends a not-too-unpleasant tingling through his spine.

_Definitely carrots, then._

“Good morning,” she puffs as she pulls up alongside. “Do you mind if I join you?” She glances at him quickly from under slightly lowered lashes and flashes a quick smile. “I am an early riser today for no reason I could figure out, and thought…” She trails off and Cullen sees a slight blush appear on her cheeks.

“Not at all,” he says, and then adds, with newfound confidence. “Do _you_ mind if I increase the pace, though?”

“Why, Commander,” she says with a wide and joyful grin, opening up unknown vistas of possibilities in his mind, “I thought you would never ask.”

He is delighted to see that she matches him for speed as they streak past several of the guards, and perhaps out of curiosity pushes just a little bit more. It doesn’t faze her—if anything, she seems to be enjoying herself way too much. She calls out cheerful greetings to the guards’ stiff salutes, waves at Dagna as the Skyhold arcanist sleepily emerges from the ground floor of the Keep and ambles towards the armory, a curiously singed piece of parchment in her hand… and when she actually _bows_ while running to Lord Chancer du Lion stepping out of the tavern (perfectly dressed and coiffed despite the early hour), Cullen gives up and slows back down.

“Fine,” he says with clenched teeth, “you win. You are a morning person, I just trained myself that way.”

_Also, apparently, she is in a much better condition than I am. Carrots and doubling up on the rounds it is, I’m afraid, old man._

_Damn._

_Wouldn’t have it any other way, though._

“I am so sorry,” she immediately says and stops cold, looking at him with an almost-mortified expression on her face. “I did not mean to…” She shakes her head and grabs for his hand with that decisiveness that he _still_ didn’t learn to anticipate. “Let me explain it somewhere more private.” And before he could say anything, he’s practically dragged aside, up a set of wooden stairs, and into the unused ground floor room of one of the more structurally unstable side turrets that Gatsi and his stonemason crew hasn’t quite gotten around fixing up yet.

“All right,” he says as the door closes behind them, secretly sure that there were at least two guards and probably Cassandra, also an early riser, who saw them and drew their own conclusions about what they’re up to. “I’m not sure what you need to explain, but…”

“I am horrible at this, am I not?” She actually looks miserable as she sits down heavily on a rickety bench somehow remaining from the original clearing-out of Skyhold. “I did not mean to imply you were not able to keep up with me or anything, I am just…” She scrubs at her face. “I wanted to meet you early enough this morning that there would not be too many people around, and I knew you still ran most mornings. And as I trained myself to be competitive at the Academy, somehow… it all just came out.” She smiles, a bit sheepishly. “And yes, I am a morning person. How can you tell?”

“Oh.” He is standing there, still breathing heavily from running, sweat cooling on his face, looking at her with what he just knows a semi-incredulous look on his face, because _Maker_ , _is she apologizing for being… her?_

_Also, she wanted to see me first thing._

“You are…” _Amazing, wonderful, gorgeous, full of life morning person, you. What did I ever do to deserve you? “_ That is, ah, I’m …” _Not quite sure how to handle this? More scared than ever in my life and that’s saying something? Really, really wanting to kiss you right now?_

_Outside voice, Rutherford. You remember words? You can do this._

“I’m not,” he finally says, trying to match the sheepish smile and going for what, he reasonably suspects, is severely missing from her life. “A morning person, that is, in case you haven’t noticed.” He very carefully lowers himself on the same bench, next to her, with confidence he wasn’t sure he could muster just a day ago. “And perhaps…” he leans back against the wall behind them and closes his eyes, head tilting backwards, “this is still all a dream.”

“Mhm.” He can practically feel that hum as she scoots closer to him and can’t suppress a grin: yes, indeed, he gambled right.

Her body shifts against his side.

“A _good_ dream?” Her breath ghosts against the sensitive skin at the corner of his eye, moves lower…

“That depends…” he whispers, eyes still closed. With heart hammering in his chest like a mad bell, he wills his hands to remain still, resting on his thighs, wills his entire body to remain motionless… Maker, he wills the entire universe to stop moving, just to savor the moment when she finally kisses him.

 _Control._ That’s what she needs right now the most; Cullen knows this with instinct honed by long years as a warrior, watching and training others. Roxanne’s life careened out of control from the moment she set foot at the Conclave, even if she doesn’t remember it—or perhaps precisely because of it. Thrown in the Fade then falling out of the sky. Named the Herald of Andraste and having to live up to that from the very beginning up to and including realizing that she’s able to kill demons and close holes in reality with literally her bare hand. Living through the destruction at Therinfall Redoubt and saving what could be saved of the Templars while watching what remained of the order of the Magi obliterated. Being treated as a living legend and surviving the destruction of an entire town with a mountain tossed on her for good measure. Named the leader of an organization that is branded as a heretic movement and building it back up from the brink of destruction. Realizing that with the fame came the very real danger of death by violence to those she loved the most: her family, simply because of who she became…

On top of all that, there is _them_. Cullen doesn’t doubt that his feelings are reciprocated: it’s all there in the way she sighs when he finally returns her kiss, in the way she wounds her arms around his neck and nibbles gently on his lower lip before they part. But he is equally certain that she needs to feel that at least a part of her life she can exercise control over: and if that should be over matters such as just how and how fast they are moving with what’s still so new between them…. well. He’s not sixteen anymore, and Templar training is _very_ good at discipline.

It _is_ difficult, though. Just like last night, she is pressing tiny kisses on his jawline, working with her customary thoroughness from one side to the other. It’s wonderful and exquisitely delicate for a while, and suddenly her crooked eyetooth grazes his scar just _right_ , and _Maker_ , that feels just a little bit _too_ good and the heat pooling low in his belly moves even more southwards...

He attempts to pull away then, just enough that he doesn’t embarrass her, but she makes a little unhappy sound and immobilizes his head with both of her gloved hands on the sides of his face.

“Shhh,” she says imperiously, eyes luminous and shiny. “I am busy worshipping you. Allow me, please.” One finger traces little patterns on the skin by his cheekbone and Cullen can feel the deep rumble of _want_ that wells up in his chest imagining _things_ (lovely, delicious things) those words just conjured in his mind.

What she says next does not exactly help, either. Especially with one of her hands up in his hair now, fingers teasing and tugging in a way that is so far from innocent he can practically _taste_ it.

“You have no idea how long I have wanted…” She breaks off and, her cheeks suddenly turning bright red, buries her face in his shoulder. “ _Bother_ ,” she whispers forcefully. “What must you think of me, acting like…”

“Roxanne.” He honestly, really, doesn’t mean to grin like an idiot while he bends his neck and kisses the top of her head, but it’s ridiculous indeed, just how different she is now from the cool and efficient Inquisitor-face she projects daily. “I happen to think that it’s wonderful, marvelous and a whole host of other words I… ah, can’t seem to remember right now, because circumstances.” He lets one hand drift up slowly to her waist and nestle there, the other running up and down her back soothingly. “I’d also very much like you to keep doing it, _especially_ if you also tell me about this longtime wish of yours concerning…”

“Cullen!” She tries very, very hard to sound scandalized but she’s not pulling away. “I simply cannot just … tell you things like… I mean, how one does even… I know I started to, but… Andraste’s frilly knickers, _stop with the laughing_!”

“I apologize,” he says with a very bad attempt at dignity: it’s hard to sound dignified, after all, with one’s arms full with a ridiculously blushing Roxanne Trevelyan. “I just can’t help myself noticing how your usual eloquence is somewhat… lacking at the moment, and…”

“It is your fault,” she says promptly. “I completely lost my train of thoughts because you…” 

“Because I…?” he inquires with a whisper, face buried in her hair, trying to maintain control, but almost failing. Her hair, her skin, her warm curves, her sweet breath, her scent… all around him, this treasure beyond his wildest dream in his arms…

“Because you are wonderful,” she answers with a happy sigh, tucking herself into his lap the same way she did yesterday; Cullen should be slightly alarmed just how natural this feels so fast. “Because this is happening. Because with you I can be just Roxanne. You will not look at me like I am some kind of half-breed foreigner attempting to steal your traditions or privileges like most viewed me at the Academy. Or like _another_ kind of half-breed foreigner who cannot be trusted because her mother is one of those conniving Orlesians, Fade-bent on making Ostwick one of their toehold in the Free Marches or outright occupy it like they did with Kirkwall back in the Storm Age.” She takes a deep breath. “Or like a mutated freak whose only claim to fame is that she obtained a pulsing green wound on her palm that can kill demons but which made her this…this altered, bleached copy of herself somehow, and…”

“Maker’s Breath, Roxanne!” He is mortified to hear this, that there are people who might view her that way… that she might have even thought that _he_ … “You know that I’d never…that I…”

“ _Now_ I do,” she says quietly and with devastating honesty. “If you recall from way back in Haven, I understood the necessity of the Inquisition’s leadership to be leery of me, given how the circumstances of our meeting and my appearance were…unconventional, to put it mildly. That, of course, did not mean I liked it, or that I did not work extremely hard to earn everyone’s trust.” There is one of her snorts, accompanied by that nose-wrinkling that makes her freckles dance. “You would think that by now I have become accustomed to winning hearts and minds the hard way… usually by killing something big and smelly or full of teeth or throwing fireballs at houses. I really should not be this sensitive, but…”

“But of course you are,” Cullen says. “We all are. Leliana probably would like not to be viewed as the ice-hearted and calculating spymaster and former Left Hand and I’m sure Josie hates the stereotype of the Antivan merchant princess more concerned with rank, proper seating and how to hold teacups than anything else. Cassandra hides the fact that she loves to read bad romances almost as fiercely as her faith, and I…” he shrugs. “Well, I’m afraid I’m forever ‘that Templar from Kirkwall who drew on his commanding officer’ to most people.”

“Surely not!” Roxanne says with a horrified expression on her face. “Cullen, you have proved over and over that you absolutely did not do that for…” She cuts that off sharply and inhales. “Wait… what was that part about Cassandra?”

“I’m sure you’ve seen her reading while out on a mission,” Cullen can’t help but grin. “I’m the last person to gossip, given my position…”

That earns him an elbow in the side and he yelps.

“Ow,” he says, more for show than for anything else and tries to slap the offending elbow aside. “As I was saying…” he continues, raising his voice a little and he’s delighted to hear a tiny giggle, “our Lady Cassandra, contrary to expectations, doesn’t spend her free time studying military treatises or the lives of great historical figures, unlike someone else I happen to know…”

A snort this time.

“Romances?” Roxanne lifts an eyebrow. Cullen nods. “As in—love stories with…?”

“You didn’t hear this from me,” Cullen leans in and whispers in her ear, “but she special orders them monthly from Val Royeaux. It came up during an advisor meeting because I found the courier requisition in a personnel report a while ago and asked Leliana to look into it, in case we could combine that courier’s route with…ah, but that’s a detail you don’t need, probably,” he says because Roxanne looks at him with that special ‘can I just have the executive summary please’ look of hers she usually reserves for War Room briefings. “They are, ah… not the tame ones, either.” He clears his throat, suddenly self-conscious, because Maker, how one explains _smutty novels_ to the love of one’s life who is…?

“Cullen.” Roxanne says slowly, patiently, gently. “If you are having difficulties telling me that Cassandra Pentaghast has a preference for bodice rippers, you can relax. I certainly will not be the person to throw the first stone at her.”

And Cullen now finds that he can’t quite close his mouth as he stares at Roxanne.

“What?” she says, face as cool and aristocratic as he’d ever seen it. “Are you saying that I can only ever study history and military strategy, with the occasional venture to Chantry lore and herbalism, because that is the right thing for _a lady of my station_?”

“Um, no?” he offers, now that his brain is working again. He can see that she’s offended by what she thought he was thinking, and he absolutely needs to make this right, and very carefully. “I’m merely wondering how the lady Roxanne Trevelyan has gotten exposed to ah, _smutty literature_?”

“Maker, Cullen,” she says, relenting. “Remember, I have been a cadet for how many years at the Academy? ‘ _Smutty literature’_ , as you so charmingly call it was a relief compared to how some of the noble cadets spoke and acted.” She makes a face and chuffs. “We have read those with another female cadet as an _escape_ from barracks talk, for Andraste’s sake. _Chevalier_ candidates are not Chantry novices or Templar initiates, so…” She grins at a memory. “There were days when we spent hours in the training yard going over some crucial but really boring technique with endless repetitions. The only way not to die of boredom was to start and write some of those in our heads. They are highly formulaic, you see, and as long as you have a couple of the more popular choices down, it is really easy to…”

“Roxanne,” Cullen says between gritted teeth, “if you’re telling me that you actually _wrote_ some of this I…”

“Oh.” Suddenly she’s blushing. “Dear Maker, no. I am just saying that Gabrielle and I played at it—just theoretically, mind you…just to see how easy it was to…” She laughs and shakes her head. “Cullen, I _promise_ there will be no ‘blackmailing the Inquisition’ material turning up anywhere, no manuscript hidden away and discovered, no awful romance published under a pseudonym…and anyway, Leliana already asked.”

“Pardon?” His morning is turning into this bizarre half-dream, and Cullen isn’t quite sure this is a good part or a bad part.

 _Well, at least that saves you from the ‘just how sheltered are you’ talk you’ve been dreading, Rutherford_ , he thinks. _Regardless of actual experience, if the romances Cassandra reads are any indication, Roxanne is way past the birds-and-bees stage. And, like she said, she was at the Academy for years. Hardly a sheltered upbringing. It jus_ t…

_Makes you rather uncomfortable._

“When I have had my first security briefing with her, shortly after I, ah, arrived in Haven. “She is referring to the time when the Breach has swallowed the Temple and she fell out of the sky, Cullen realizes. “Surely you also went through this when Cassandra recruited you?”

“Absolutely. “Cullen nods. “It’s just that…”

“The fact that Leliana interrogated the Herald of Andraste about possible security risks to the Inquisition, or that one of the possible security risks might have involved risqué storywriting?” Roxanne asks, with that decidedly mischievous smile of hers that makes Cullen’s stomach completely flip over.

“Maker, both, of course,” he says desperately and sighs. “And we _already_ have an author.” He knows he sounds ridiculous, and still, he wouldn’t take any of it back, because she laughs again.

“’ _Modest in temper, bold in deed’_ ,” she quotes, chuckling. “Those are the words of my house. You really _should_ have known I might have some…hidden depths.”

“Roxanne Trevelyan,” Cullen says, somewhat sternly. “Are you _sassing_ me now?”

“Hidden. Depths,” she says slowly, leaning closer. She breathes a kiss on his nose, then pulls away and looks at him, a bit more sober and serious. “I know you do not have much patience for nobility, so I am very glad the title did not scare you away.”

_So she’s noticed that little tendency of mine to get… peculiar with the upper class. Probably why I’m usually not there for the high-profile diplomatic meetings._

“I hadn’t considered it.” _Much_. _Once I kissed you, anyway._ “I have no title outside of the Inquisition, as you know, and I hope that, in turn, doesn’t…” A thought occurs to him, what with her family’s impending arrival, and his brows furrow. “I mean… does it bother _you_?”

“Maker, no!” Roxanne looks at him slightly mortified and swallows. “Why should it? I was not trying to put you on the spot.” Her voice is barely a whisper as her forehead touches his. “If you care for me that is all that matters.”

“I’m really not very good at this, am I?” Cullen’s voice is hoarse as his arms go around her again. “Don’t try to contradict me right now, please, and I promise not to beat myself up too much for not saying anything sooner. Just… understand that if I seem unsure still, it’s because it’s been a….long time since I’ve wanted anyone in my life.” _And it still seems like a dream_. “I wasn’t expecting to find that here.” His arms tighten as he pulls her even closer and whispers in her hair. “Or you.”

She tilts her head up as an offering, and he takes what he can, oh he does, like a humble supplicant finally being offered reprieve and forgiveness, drinking happiness from her lips. His Lady of the Hand, Herald of Pride and Joy: he would write entire responsories to describe her beauty and her brightness if he had even an ounce of poetry in his soul.

 _“I_ _saw in a night-vision, and behold, the Herald of Andraste was coming on the clouds of heaven: and sovereignty and honor were given her: and every people and tribe, and all languages shall serve her…”_

“When you kissed me on the battlements…” she breathes when they part, with that secret smile on her face he now realizes she keeps just for him. “How long had you wanted to do that?”

 _Am I really that transparent?_ he thinks but can’t help the happy chuckle that escapes him, fingers threading into her hair.

“Longer than I should admit,” he answers, and apparently that indeed was the right thing to say because her eyes darken and her kiss is slow and potent and full of promises of what’s to come. _Dear_ _Maker,_ Cullen’s mind warns him, the way her body surges up and her breasts press fully against his chest will be his undoing if he’s not careful…

Both of them breathe decidedly heavier when they part.

“There will be gossip,” she says, pulling away just enough but leaning against his shoulder. Cullen, somewhat mortified, arrests his hand attempting to sneak under her doublet and actually contemplates sitting on it. “The Commander of the Inquisition and the Herald of Andraste…”

He actually groans.

“I didn’t even consider… Maker, the barracks are normally a hotbed of rumors anyway, but this…”

“Does _that_ …bother you?” Her eyes search his while she bites her lip a bit, and Cullen realizes just how insecure she still is with what is happening to them.

And that he really needs to be honest with her.

“I’d rather my… _our_ …” he corrects himself quickly, “private affairs remain that way, Roxanne.” He lifts her hand and kisses it gently. “Private. On the other hand, if there were nothing _here_ for people to talk about,” he turns her hand and continues with tiny kisses on her wrist, tracing the pale blue veins under her skin, “…I would regret it more.”

“That is… lovely,” Roxanne’s voice trembles a bit. Cullen smirks a little because turnabout is fair play and seeing her eyes darken with desire is adequate repayment for his discomfort moments ago. “And true, and I would gladly spend the rest of the day hiding here with you, but…”

“Oh,” Cullen says, trying to keep the disappointment out of his voice, as reality and their duties finally break through the lavender and honey-scented haze of her skin. “But I have a meeting with Rylen at eighth bell and the new recruits are arriving today and your morning is probably even busier before the advisor meeting this afternoon, so…”

“So,” Roxanne stands up, hand still in his, and cocks an eyebrow, “ _clearly_ we should have dinner, unless you have previously made plans already?”

Cullen very quickly says yes.

Dinner doesn’t happen, though, or, at least, not in the way he expects it. In a turn of events that is clearly a test of his endurance (or a sign of the Maker’s odd sense of humor, Cullen is sorting that one out), the Inquisitor’s family arrives that evening at Vespers bell, after the messenger from the watchtower at the bottom of the road rides in on a lathered horse and asks to see the advisors in private.

“Shit.” Cullen is busy trying to keep up with Roxanne as she practically rushes out of the War Room (they were just about to call it a day, having established a timetable for the Western Approach operation), and catches her muttering the strongest cussword she ever used. Repeatedly. “Shit, shit, shitshitshit…”

“They are fine,” he says, lengthening his stride (she really is almost running). “The messenger scout said they are fine, he wouldn’t have…”

“You will forgive me if I want to see that with my own eyes, right?” She practically snaps at him as she rounds the corner and takes the stairs down towards the stables by two. “Papa’s gout probably was killing him during the whole trip, I need to see if Solas could see him right away and…”

She stops suddenly and stares at Cullen with narrowed eyes. He can practically feel her mind _snap to_ , like a soldier on a parade ground.

_There’s the Roxanne Trevelyan I know._

“And _shit_ again, because I probably should not blow operation cover by rushing down there by myself and throw a fit. Is that why you are running with me?”

“Something like that, actually, yes.” Cullen rubs the back of his neck. “I became, apparently, quite good at interpreting Leliana’s subtle gestures so I followed you.”

“And I am an idiot. Please accept my apologies.” Roxanne turns around on her heels and takes his arm with the practiced ease of someone schooled to see reason even under the greatest duress. “And now, let us pretend we had a… disagreement over some strategy issues or troop deployment and I came here to ah, clear my head by talking to the horses? I think that might be a suitable cover for my blunder if we can play it right.”

Cullen has a few _other_ ideas why one might want to spend some time in the semi-dark of the lower courtyard, not to mention the loft of the stables, but he decides _that_ aspect of his farmboy upbringing should not be allowed to emerge just now. Besides, Blackwall took up residence in the stable’s loft and although he comes and goes at odd hours (probably something to do with being a Warden), with Cullen’s luck he’d absolutely show up and the worst possible time.

_Let’s just hope that no one has the same filthy mindset as you lately, Rutherford, and doesn’t come to the conclusion that you and the Inquisitor just couldn’t wait any longer…_

_On the other hand, that probably would be a suitable enough cover._

_Down, boy._

“The horses,” he nods instead, stepping into the warmth of the stables following her. “Of course. Right.”

Master Dennet is busy in one of the stalls, murmuring soothing words to one of the Orlesian Coursers—‘ _fine mounts but easy to strain ligaments’_ , he remembers him saying once. He hears them approach and straightens, one hand resting lightly on the horse’s flank as he peers at them.

“Inquisition.” Dennet nods at both of them with the quiet respect of an old man set in his ways, and Cullen finds himself, like always, smile gently at someone so clearly in love with what he’s doing. “Just taking care of a strained knee here…what can I do for you?”

“Dennet, good evening,” Roxanne is impeccably polite and cool again, but with a slight bounce in her step that Cullen by now knows means she enjoys where she is. “I did not realize you were working this late. I merely wished to show the Commander our latest…ah, acquisition.” She glances towards the darkness in one of the inner stalls. “It did not give you trouble, I trust?”

“Oh my goodness.” Dennet shakes his head and clicks his tongue soothingly as he gives a last pat to the charger and exits its stall. “That one’s a handful. I hope you know what you’re doing, Inquisition.” Cullen is taken aback somewhat by the familiar way the old man addresses Roxanne, but she just grins and takes the horsemaster’s arm.

“What I know is that you are the best person to handle such creature, Master Dennet. The Mages’ Collective might have sent it as some kind of test, but under your hand…”

“Yes, yes, well, flattery _will_ take you anywhere, girl,” Dennet says sternly, then caresses his moustache and grins. “As you well know it.”

“May I please know what we are…?” Cullen interjects, but that’s when they stop at a stall towards the back of the stables and all he can do is stare and say: “Oh. That.”

“Still not sure what _this_ is.” Dennet says; Cullen takes a step back just to be sure that…thing that stares at him with glowing red eyes does not reach him with its teeth as it jerks its head up and snaps towards the door. “Hoo, you,” Dennet’s voice is as soothing as he ever heard it. “I mean, obviously this creature was best of breed, an Orlesian charger, in fact, destined to carry chevaliers into battle.”

“ _That_?” Cullen points. “That… _thing_ with a sword stuck through its head is…?”

‘ _Was_.” Roxanne and Dennet says almost in unison. Then she continues, while looking thoughtfully at the creature in the stall. “Indeed, I can see that now, Master Dennet: the way it holds its neck, the curve of the back, the round jaw…” She clicks her tongue much the same as Dennet did before and the thing—black as night, ribs ghastly jutting out from thick-haired hide, gleaming yellow-white teeth uncannily sharp, and most of all, that hideous, rusted piece of iron through its skull—bobs its head towards her.

“ ’A mount of noble spirit, fallen in battle against rage, returned to life by the boundless urge to run and serve a worthy cause and noble master’.” Dennet is obviously quoting something. “Well, Inquisition, there’s a challenge worth your time, no doubt.” He shrugs. “I didn’t expect you to start on it today, and certainly not in such an illustrious company,” he says, with an almost-imperceptible wink towards Cullen, and he (curse it!) feels himself redden, “but I’m here, you’re here, this thing doesn’t really go anywhere anytime soon, so might as well…”

So for the next hour or so Cullen stays in the stables, and instead of the private dinner he dearly wished to have with Roxanne (to such distraction, in fact, that even Josephine remarked about his ‘absent-mindedness’ over their war meeting), he watches her coax the nightmare horse she dubbed ‘Bog Unicorn’ into some semblance of calm when she’s nearby so she can, at least, touch its nose with a palm without wearing plate gauntlets. Dennet exchanges a glance at some point with Cullen that says ‘this will be a long road, here’, but doesn’t intervene.

And then there’s the wagon, pulled by sturdy Fereldan horses, and people are getting off it and from the horses surrounding it. Leliana materializes from the twilight of the lower courtyard along with an agent called Martin (‘ _as in the bird’_ , Cullen remembers her dimpling when introducing him a while ago), and takes charge of those dismounting. He remains in the background as Roxanne, hearing the commotion, abandons the Bog Unicorn’s taming and hurries out, almost pell-mell from the stable and falls into the arms of a very tall, distinguished-looking older man who holds himself so rigidly straight as only people with long military service and extreme, chronic pain can.

“Papa!” she gulps in a choked cry, one arm thrown around the man’s neck, the other outstretched towards a small ginger-haired woman with a smile like a blazing sun and two young men sharing the same features. “Maman! Boys! Oh, Maker!”

The entire family squeezes together in a tight ball of hug; the old man’s face contorts into a painful grimace for a second over the others’ head but he bears the pain and probably will attribute the tears that start in the corners of his eyes to the joy of reunion later, Cullen thinks, who’s seen people suffering from gout before. Then his eyes are drawn by another set of movements and sees a tall, lanky elf with bleached white hair and slightly flickering swirly tattoos over his bare arms move quietly on almost-bare feet towards the railing of the stables where the figure of Marian Hawke appeared at some point, almost like a shadow. The elf throws an arm around Hawke’s shoulder quietly and without any word just _squeezes_ her against his side in silence, face buried into her hair.

“So sweet, no?” Leliana dimples a bit, resting her elbows on the railing next to Cullen. “We need these moments to remind us why we do what we do.” Her eyes cloud over with memories and Cullen remembers how she grieved at last over the Divine Justinia, her friend, her mentor, her mother figure, when they finally had a chance to pause and mourn those they lost in Haven.

And Cullen nods, watching Fenris and Hawke disappear quietly and unassumingly into the shadows, and seriously contemplates doing the same when the clump of Trevelyans breaks up. He sees Roxanne surface from a seemingly endless sea of arms and sniffling, and, with the world’s most naturally radiant (and most beautiful, Cullen is rather sure) smile on her face reaches a hand towards _him_.

“Papa, Maman, Fredic, Rhodri, I want you to meet Commander Rutherford.” She is still smiling. “Cullen…this is my family.”

“Maker, what are you waiting for? Go!” Cullen feels a bit of a push on his arm, and as he glances down ( _she is so tiny_!) Leliana hisses at him, almost disbelievingly.

And as he jerks upright, and turns towards that scene again, he receives, suddenly and unexpectedly, the full force of a hug from the slender-red-headed version of Roxanne, squeezing his waist with Orlesian abandon and sniffling back copious tears.

“So this is _him_ , then?” he hears her practically _coo_ the words and while trying to come to terms with what is just happening, he just knows with the desperate last-second awareness of someone whose life just inexplicably changed in the last day…

_This, of course, will be all over Skyhold within the next hour._


End file.
